


Disaster Christmas: an Avengers Team 5+1

by awesomesockes, whumphoarder



Series: Christ, What Now? [15]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Incredible Hulk (2008)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Allergic reaction, Allergies, Banter, Blood, Bruce Banner Is a Good Bro, Bruce Banner Needs a Hug, Christmas, Christmas Decorations, Christmas Dinner, Domestic Avengers, Drinking, Drunk Decorating, Eggnog, Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Hallmark Movies, Hangover, High Tony Stark, Humor, Hurt Clint Barton, Hurt Happy Hogan, Hurt Sam Wilson, Hurt Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, Influenza, Injury, Medicine, Painkillers, Sick Natasha Romanov, Sick Pepper Potts, Sick Peter Parker, Sick Rhodey, Team as Family, Uncomfortable Bucky Barnes, Uncomfortable Steve Rogers, Vomiting, Whump, santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 15:53:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21810742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awesomesockes/pseuds/awesomesockes, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whumphoarder/pseuds/whumphoarder
Summary: Five times the Avengers experience Christmas-related misfortune and Dr. Banner gets to show off his nursing skills + the one time everyone is miserable together.
Relationships: Bruce Banner & Avengers Team, Bruce Banner & Happy Hogan, Bruce Banner & May Parker (Spider-Man), Bruce Banner & Natasha Romanov, Bruce Banner & Pepper Potts, Bruce Banner & Peter Parker, Bruce Banner & Tony Stark, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, May Parker (Spider-Man) & Peter Parker, Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Series: Christ, What Now? [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1282181
Comments: 322
Kudos: 716





	1. Underneath the Christmas Tree: Tony

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [Sally](https://sallyidss.tumblr.com/) and [Cat](https://xxx-cat-xxx.tumblr.com/) for beta reading!
> 
> Chapter title from the song [Underneath the Christmas Tree](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aFBtmS4hTeA)

It’s just after midnight on the morning of December 23rd. After finishing up editing his scientific journal article (about the medicinal uses of toxins in mistletoe), Bruce is finally able to kick back and relax in his room. This year he’s determined to fully embrace the holiday spirit, hence his Hallmark movie marathon, minty cocoa, and knitted socks. 

Twenty minutes into ‘A Dog Named Christmas’, FRIDAY’s voice interrupts over the speakers. “Dr. Banner, Boss is requesting your presence in the lounge.”

Bruce frowns. “Can it wait? I’m in the middle of something here.” He reaches for another reindeer-shaped sugar cookie just as little Todd’s family signs the pet adoption papers on screen.

“I’m afraid not,” FRIDAY says, sounding just the tiniest bit regretful. “Boss is in a bit of a pickle.” There’s a beat. “His words, not mine.”

With a sigh, Bruce pauses the movie and untangles himself from his snowflake-print blanket. “This had better be good…” he mutters as he gets to his feet, taking the mug of cocoa with him. Seven years of life at the compound have gotten him pretty used to Tony’s middle of the night antics.

But somehow he’s still unprepared.

Bruce makes it all of two steps into the lounge before instantly halting at the sight of his friend. Tony is lying on his back in the middle of the room, surrounded by boxes of Christmas decorations, a positively gigantic pine tree pinning him to the ground. 

Bruce blinks. “What on _earth?”_

“Hey Brucie,” Tony grunts, his voice a bit muffled beneath the branches.

Bruce blinks again, feeling dazed. “Are… Are you alright?”

Tony clears his throat. “So, funny story...”

Raising an eyebrow, Bruce swirls his cocoa mug around a bit to distribute the melting marshmallows. “Oh, I’ll bet.”

Tony launches in, “So, the kid mentioned a couple weeks ago that he’s never had a real Christmas tree—you know, he and his aunt live on the seventh floor and it’s a small apartment and all that… So I thought, hey, we’re doing Christmas at the compound this year—why not make it something to remember? And we’ve got the vaulted ceilings after all...”

Bruce nods, taking a long sip. This is sounding like classic Tony so far; he recalls hearing about a particular incident one Christmas involving Pepper and a giant stuffed rabbit.

“...So I ordered a sixteen-footer,” Tony concludes. 

“Naturally,” Bruce remarks. He sets his cocoa mug on the coffee table and moves over to stand beside the fallen tree. Aside from one arm and the top of his head, Tony’s body is almost completely hidden under the branches. 

“Except I came home tonight to find that the delivery guys set the thing up in front of the _fireplace_ when I specifically told them to put it in front of the _window,”_ Tony continues his rant. “I mean, what kind of _morons_ would do that? You’ll block the stockings!”

Bruce nods, a small smile on his lips. “Not to mention, Santa.”

Tony heaves out an exasperated sigh. “Obviously it couldn’t _stay_ there...” he goes on.

“So,” Bruce summarizes, “rather than wait for the morning when there are multiple _literal superheroes_ available to help, you thought you’d just relocate a two-hundred pound evergreen all the way across the room—completely by yourself—at midnight?”

There’s a pause. “Well it sounds bad when you put it like _that.”_

Bruce squats down to examine the situation more closely. While the tree is definitely on the larger side, he can’t imagine that it’s so heavy Tony would be unable to roll it off without assistance. Something about this story’s still not adding up.

After a few seconds of confusion, it finally clicks. Bruce sighs deeply. “You hurt your back, didn’t you?”

The wince in Tony’s voice is audible. “Oh yeah. Real bad.”

Bruce rubs a hand at the back of his neck as he contemplates the best way to move the tree. Rolling seems easiest, but if Tony’s in this much pain, he’s worried that the movement will further aggravate the injury. “Maybe it would be better to get someone with a bit more upper body strength,” he suggests. “I’m sure Steve could—”

“Oh hell no,” Tony cuts him off. “We’re not getting anyone else involved. This is humiliating enough as is. It’s you and me, pal.”

“But if someone could just lift it _straight_ up...” Bruce protests.

“Bruce,” Tony says, his voice a bit pleading. “One of these branches is poking me in a rather delicate place, if you catch my drift. Just get the damn thing off me.”

Bruce sighs. “Alright, but it’s not going to be pretty...” he moves around to the foot of the tree and squats down to get a grip on it. “Ready?”

A branch over Tony’s head bobs up and down, which Bruce translates to a nod. “Do it.” 

Grabbing hold of the trunk, Bruce starts dragging the massive object backwards, eliciting pained grunts from Tony. The second it’s off, he abandons the tree and jogs back over to the now whimpering man on the floor.

“Tony?” he asks anxiously. “Are you alright?”

“Yep. Fine,” Tony gasps out, giving a tight nod. His upper body is now covered in small scratches, including a particularly long one across his left cheek, and his face is contorted in pain. “Never better.”

Given the tears currently springing to the engineer’s eyes and the way he’s making no effort to get up from the floor, Bruce figures that’s doubtful.

Fully expecting Tony to protest, Bruce pulls out his phone anyway. “I’m gonna call Medical,” he says. “Get someone up here with a stretcher.”

But to Bruce’s horror, Tony just grunts out a pained, “Yep. Sounds good.”


	2. Here Comes Santa Claus: Happy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from the song: [Here Comes Santa Claus](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nND-1btq_ak)

“This better be the last stop…” Happy grumbles as they enter the small liquor store. A bell above the door jingles to announce their arrival.

“It should be,” Bruce says, scanning the list in his hand. With Tony now out of commission (two slipped discs in his back and a badly pulled muscle in his right shoulder), he and Happy agreed to head down to the city to handle some of the last minute Christmas shopping for him. It’s five in the afternoon now on December 23rd, and they’re in their eighth store of the day. “Just need to find this one particular spiced rum for the eggnog and we’re done.”

“Thank  _ god,” _ Happy groans. He plucks a toothpick-skewered cheese cube from the tray of samples and pops it into his mouth. “My feet are killing me.”

Bruce chuckles a bit. “At least we’re not at the mall. Nat just texted that she’s been standing in line at the Lego store for forty minutes, trying to buy Clint’s kid that new Stranger Things Upside Down set. Apparently they’re playing ‘Here Comes Santa Claus’ on loop.”

“Christmas is bullshit,” Happy declares, moving over to the rum shelf. He picks up one of the dark bottles and squints at the label. “It’s all just commercialism, disappointment, and empty promises from your deadbeat dad that he’ll show up to your fourth grade choir performance with two dozen homemade cookies, but instead you find him later that night passed out on the sofa watching reruns of  _ M*A*S*H _ and eating bean dip with a spoon…” 

(As Happy trails off, Bruce gets the impression that this is no longer about their current errand.)

Bruce sighs a bit, picking up another bottle to examine. Though he doesn’t like to discuss his own less-than-optimal childhood, he can definitely relate to Happy’s bitterness regarding the holidays. 

“You know,” he says casually after a moment, “Christmas never used to do that much for me either. But the past few years with the team have changed my perspective somewhat.” He shrugs, catching sight through the window of a jolly-looking Santa just outside the store handing out candy canes to passing children. “Family’s better when you get to choose it.”

Happy clears his throat before hastily replacing the bottle on the shelf. “I’m gonna go see if they sell that one vodka Nat likes…” he mutters thickly, turning on his heel.

Bruce can’t help but smile to himself as he continues his search. Underneath Happy’s gruff exterior, he knows the man’s a softie at heart. 

That’s when Bruce hears a commotion at the register. He looks up just in time to see the very same jolly Santa now standing inside the store and pointing a gun to the terrified owner’s head.

And just like that, the moment is shattered.

“Let’s go, old man!” Santa demands, chucking a velvet sack onto the counter. “All your cash in the bag! And a couple packs of Marlboro!”

Quickly, Bruce ducks down behind the shelf, praying the robber hasn’t seen them. He’s working hard to keep his breaths even, as he can’t imagine Hulk’s arrival making this situation much better.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he sees Happy—who is crouched down in an adjacent aisle—pull a gun from his ankle holster. Bruce’s eyes go wide and he waves a hand to get his friend’s attention. When Happy looks his way, Bruce makes a slashing gesture in front of his throat. He then presses two fingers to the side of his own neck as though taking his pulse and raises his eyebrows questioningly, hoping the man gets the message. 

Happy shakes his head firmly, and then nods to the gun in his hands before mouthing ‘I got this’.

Bruce watches as the head of security starts slowly creeping in the direction of the counter, still concealed by the shelves. Once he reaches the end of the aisle, he waits a moment, gun drawn.

The owner finishes emptying the register and turns around the get the cigarettes. That’s when Santa—still pointing his gun at the man’s head—happens to glance down to grab a Snickers bar from the counter.

Happy seizes this opportunity to make a lunge for the robber. However, in the process, he knocks over one of the magazine stands and it crashes to the floor.

Santa whirls around and fires the gun at Happy, who swears sharply. Instantly, Bruce leaps to his feet. He’s not really sure what his plan is, but he assumes Hulk will decide for him soon enough. 

But it turns out that’s not necessary as the owner takes advantage of the momentary distraction to whack Santa over the head with a bottle of Cherry Noir Grey Goose.

Santa instantly crumples to the ground, unconscious. He’s followed a second later by Happy, whose knees give out before he falls backwards to the ground with a grunt of pain, his right pant leg rapidly staining with blood just above the knee.

“Call 911!” Bruce hollers to the owner while racing over. He kicks Santa’s gun as far as he can across the shop floor before dropping down to his knees beside Happy. 

Blood continues streaming from the wound. “How bad is it? Did it go through?” Bruce demands, grabbing Happy’s shoulder.

“Don’t know,” Happy grunts while the shop owner frantically talks to emergency dispatch over the phone. “Think it hit the bone. Fuck.”

Bruce slides a hand under Happy’s thigh, feeling for an exit wound and finding none. “You’re alright, it’s still in there,” he says. “Just need to keep pressure on it, uh…” On the ground, he spies the Santa hat the robber was wearing a moment ago and snags it to press to the wound, eliciting a moan from Happy.

“Can’t fucking believe this…” Happy mutters. The man is growing paler by the second.

“It’s okay, it’s a big muscle so out of all the places you could get shot, this is actually one of the better ones,” he rambles. “Probably just need a quick surgery for the bullet removal and then—” 

“No, I can believe I got  _ shot _ —far from the first time for  _ that,”  _ Happy grouses. “I just can’t believe I got shot by fucking  _ Saint Nick!  _ Told you this holiday was bullshit...”

“That’s just the blood loss talking,” Bruce assures. Happy sucks in a sharp breath as Bruce presses harder on the hat. “We’ll get that Christmas spirit back soon enough...”

(Happy passes out just before the ambulance arrives.)


	3. Grandma’s Killer Fruitcake: Pepper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from the song [Grandma’s Killer Fruitcake](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zzPzEjg_bI4)

“But why _fruitcake?”_ Bruce overhears Sam demand, his tone incredulous. “Of all the types of cake, everyone knows that fruit is the worst.” 

Bruce enters the kitchen the afternoon of Christmas Eve to find half the compound in the midst of what appears to be a heated debate. Steve—currently dressed in a Christmas tree print apron—is standing in front of half a dozen freshly baked loaves of dense-looking bread. He’s got his arms crossed over his chest and looks miffed. “You know, when I was growing up, fruitcake was considered a _delicacy.”_

Bucky is standing beside his boyfriend at the counter, wearing a matching apron and a reindeer antler headband. He cuts off another slice and puts it on Pepper’s already crumb-covered plate. “Yeah, we used to _beg_ my mother for pieces. Best part of Christmas.”

“That’s kind of sad, honestly,” Sam scoffs. “Here in the twenty-first century, we’ve figured out that the only good use for fruitcake is as a doorstop.”

“You know, it’s actually pretty good,” Pepper says, breaking off a small piece to pop into her mouth. She’s sitting on one of the kitchen barstools across from the two supersoldiers. “Don’t knock it till you try it.”

“More like knock someone _out_ with it…” Sam picks up one of the loaves and holds it over his shoulder as though he’s winding up to bat. 

Looking indignant, Steve snatches the cake back. Pepper laughs a bit and rubs at her neck. Then she turns to give Bruce a smile. “Hey,” she greets. “How are the patients?”

“About as well as can be expected for someone with two slipped discs who’s refusing to take pain meds because they ‘make his brain too dull,’” Bruce says with an eye-roll as he walks over to the refrigerator. He adds in a mutter, “...as if he needs that sharp wit of his to watch reruns of The Price is Right and eat snacks.” He takes out the orange juice and starts to pour two glasses full. “Oh, and Happy’s napping.”

After getting the bullet surgically removed from his femur and his leg set in a cast, Happy had spent the night at a local hospital downtown. But as soon as the doctors declared him stable enough to be moved, Pepper arranged for him to be transferred via helicopter to the compound to continue recovering in Medbay. He’s been mostly sleeping since then, though he has awoken a few times to complain about the Christmas music playing in the background and the handful of decorations Bruce put up in the facility.

Pepper laughs. “Sounds about like how I left them.” Taking another bite of fruitcake, she scratches at her neck again around the collar of her sweater. Bruce frowns slightly, noticing the skin underneath is red.

She breaks the corner off of her piece of fruitcake and holds it out to Sam. “Here. Just try it.”

With a dramatic sigh, Sam accepts the fruitcake and takes a cautious nibble. Immediately, his face turns up in disgust and he spits it back into his open palm. “Eugh. Yeah, no, still as bad as ever.” 

Steve looks disappointed, but Bucky just huffs and says, “If you think this is bad, you should have been there in ‘32 when we ran out of apples and tried to make one using all our stockpiled raisins and a single potato.”

Bruce chuckles quietly to himself at the thought of potato fruitcake as he replaces the orange juice carton in the fridge.

“Now we have something called ‘paradise mix,’” Steve points out, holding up a plastic container of brightly-colored candied fruits that have been diced into tiny pieces. 

“It’s got cherries, lemon, orange, citron—whatever that is—and pineapple,” Bucky informs while Bruce raises one of the glasses of juice to his lips. “Not a potato in sight.”

“And we added dried strawberries!” Steve reminds cheerily.

Bruce chokes on his orange juice. All eyes turn to look at him as he coughs and sputters, liquid dribbling down his chin.

“Are you okay?” Steve asks, looking concerned.

“Yeah,” Bruce manages between coughs. He makes eye-contact with Pepper, who has now set down her plate and is looking mildly horrified. “Wrong pipe.”

Pepper gets hastily to her feet. “Well, this was delicious guys, thank you so much,” she says sincerely, nodding to Steve and Bucky. “I think I’ll go check on Tony now, see if I can convince him to take some of that Vicodin…” Tilting her head towards the door, she gives Bruce a meaningful look. “Bruce? You coming?” she asks, her voice tight.

“Yup,” Bruce agrees, abandoning the juice entirely. “Sounds good.” And with that, both he and Pepper hurry past their puzzled-looking housemates out of the room.

Only once they’re safely in the hall alone does Pepper’s façade crumble. “Dammit,” she breathes out. “Had to be strawberries, didn’t it?”

Being as close to Tony as he is, Bruce is one of the few people living in the compound aware of Pepper’s severe allergy. Judging from the hives breaking out all over her neck and the way her breathing is growing rapid, he knows it’s not long before they have a full-on crisis. “Do you have your EpiPen on you?” he asks urgently.

She shakes her head, already striding quickly in the direction of Medbay. “Got one in my purse, but”—she points straight ahead, gasping—“this is closer.”

Bruce has to trot to keep up with Pepper as she speedwalks determinedly down the hall. They stop only once, when Pepper’s face suddenly takes on an ashen color and she vomits neatly into a potted fern just outside the Medbay doors.

Pepper straightens back up and wipes her mouth on her sleeve. “God. Can’t… breathe…” she gasps. Grasping the hem of her sweater, she quickly pulls it off over her head, leaving her in just a tank top.

Bruce inhales sharply at the sight of the angry red welts spreading all over her chest and arms. Her lips are swollen and puffy as well, and from the sound of her wheezing, her throat is closing fast. “C’mon, almost there,” he encourages, grabbing her elbow to help her the remaining few feet into Medbay.

 _“Finally,”_ Tony jokes as the doors swing open. “How long does it take to pour some orange ju—” He cuts himself off, his eyes going wide at the sight of Bruce helping his wheezing, hive-riddled fiancée into the room. _“Honey?”_ he demands.

“No don’t move!” Bruce orders, seeing that Tony’s scrambling to sit up despite the obvious pain it’s causing. He can’t deal with two medical emergencies at once.

Pepper ignores Tony altogether, making a beeline straight toward one of the supply cabinets. She yanks open the second drawer and pulls out one of the adrenaline auto injectors. Ripping the blue cap off with her teeth, she swings her arm down and stabs the needle into her thigh.

“Pepper!” Tony cries, once more making to get out of bed, but Bruce holds up a finger sternly in the man’s direction.

“No, you _stay,”_ Bruce practically growls, feeling The Other Guy stirring somewhere inside. “Do not move, okay? We’ve got this.”

“Alright, alright,” Tony acquiesces, holding both hands up at chest height. “But what the hell is happening right now?”

Pepper rips the used injector from her leg and tosses it onto the counter before sinking down onto the closest bed. “Straw…berries,” she gasps out.

Thankfully, the epinephrine does its job, and with the help of an oxygen mask and intravenous antihistamines, Pepper’s condition quickly begins to improve. As he carefully monitors Pepper’s vitals, Bruce explains the whole situation to a very distraught Tony.

“I’m gonna kill Rogers,” Tony grumbles once Pepper’s breathing has stabilized enough that she seems out of the danger zone. “Who adds dried strawberries to fruitcake? Also, Pep”—he turns to his fiancée, an incredulous look on his face—“c’mon, _fruit_ cake? Really? Everyone knows that’s the cancer of Christmas foods.”

Pepper lifts the mask just enough to roll her eyes at him. “Is not. Was good... ‘til it started… killing me,” she wheezes lightly.

Tony huffs out a breathy laugh. “Yeah, that’s usually how it goes.”

“Speaking of death,” Bruce butts in, side-eyeing Happy, who has somehow managed to sleep straight through this entire debacle (which is frankly concerning at this point). “How on _earth_ is he still out?”

Tony glances to Happy. “Ah, yeah. Funny story.” He clears his throat, a bit sheepishly. “He was up a couple hours ago, but he just kept going on and on about the decorations and Santa and how much he hates elves and uh…” He trails off a bit. “I might’ve upped his morphine.”

Bruce’s gaze drifts to the remote for Happy’s self-dosing morphine pump, which has somehow found its way to Tony’s bedside table.

Pepper snorts out a laugh from under the mask.

Bruce just sighs, running a hand exasperatedly over his face. “This really is the Christmas that just keeps on giving…”


	4. Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer: Natasha

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from the song [Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fJQqOzkcHjg)

Bruce generally likes detail-oriented activities. From his meticulous work in the lab, to his well-organized flower beds in the outdoor conservatory, to the occasional 1000-piece puzzle he assembles, Bruce is all about precision. Because of this, gift wrapping is something that he usually takes pride in. He has a plethora of colorful paper, boxes, ribbons, bows, and stickers with which to adorn presents of all shapes and sizes.

So, when Tony, Happy, and Pepper all became suddenly unable to wrap the presents they’d bought for everyone, each of them had privately asked Bruce if he’d mind helping out.

(Also Clint, who’d thrust a couple of Home Depot shopping bags full of eccentric-but-functional gifts he’d purchased everyone into Bruce’s arms with a sheepish smile before driving home to Iowa for Christmas with his family.)

Originally, Bruce was happy to help. The first hour went alright. As did the second. But by his third hour of unrolling endless sheets of wrapping paper and finagling it around various oddly shaped gifts (the most recent of those being the saddle Tony bought for Pepper’s horse, Hobbleton), he’s feeling a little frustrated at his friends’ seemingly endless generosity.

It’s 11:45 at night on December 24th and Bruce—grumbling under his breath—is on the hunt for more tape when he happens to walk past the kitchen. Though the light is off, he can make out a shadowy figure near the kitchen island, and immediately does a double take.

“Nat?” he says with a frown.

Her only response is a single sneeze. 

His frown deepening, Bruce steps into the kitchen and flips on the light switch to reveal Natasha standing hunched over the counter, upon which a steaming mug is sitting. She’s shivering and wiping her slightly red nose on a tissue, her hair pulled back into a messy ponytail. A threadbare blanket is wrapped around her shoulders and she’s wearing unicorn slippers. She glares tiredly at him. “What?” she asks, her voice hoarse. 

Bruce blinks. “Um… are you alright?”

“Just dandy,” Nat croaks, her tone flat. Lifting the mug to her lips, she tries to take a sip, but her trembling hands cause some of the liquid to slop over the cup’s rim and onto her pajama top. “Shit...” she mutters. 

Raising an eyebrow, Bruce tears a paper towel off the roll and moves over to offer it to her. “You’re not looking very dandy,” he says.

Rolling her eyes, Nat snatches the paper towel from him. “That’s because I’m _sick,_ you dingus,” she snaps, dabbing the towel at her shirt. “Spent two hours at that fucking Lego store getting sneezed on by some flu-riddled old man in a parka while his wife repeatedly demanded to speak to a manag—” She breaks off into coughs.

Bruce clears his throat awkwardly. “Right, of course, I just meant, uh...”

She seems to deflate at his response. “No, sorry. It’s not you.” Squeezing her eyes shut, she sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. “It’s this fucking headache...”

“I imagine the fever doesn’t help either,” Bruce points out. 

She shrugs non-committedly.

Bruce gives her a sympathetic smile. “Did you take anything for it?”

Nat nods, blowing her nose into the used paper towel. “Like, half an hour ago. Isn’t doing much—” She breaks into more horrible-sounding coughs, causing Bruce to wince.

As the coughing fit intensifies, Bruce grabs her a bottle of water from the fridge and moves back to try to hand it to her, but Nat just shakes her head, still hacking into her elbow. This continues for another minute or so. Then suddenly she pushes past him and stumbles over to the sink just before her coughs turn into heaves and she starts to vomit into the basin.

Recovering quickly from his initial surprise, Bruce crosses the kitchen in three quick strides. He’s unsure how to help, so he places what he hopes is a comforting hand on her back, but Nat shakes him off.

“‘m’ fine,” she chokes out between coughs. “Go ‘way.”

Bruce lowers his hand and takes a step backwards, but continues to hover nearby until the coughing tapers off and she’s left panting. When it seems like her breathing is more under control, he tries again to offer her the water bottle. This time she accepts.

While Nat takes a sip, Bruce steps around her to turn on the faucet and run the garbage disposal. “Do you still feel nauseous, or do you want to go back to bed now?” he asks. 

Shaking her head, she rubs at her temples tiredly. “Can’t sleep,” she grumbles. “It’s too hot, then ‘s’ too cold, an’ I can’t breathe when I’m lying down.”

The frankness with which she admits it catches Bruce off-guard. Normally, Nat is the last one to complain about her health, denying any illnesses or injuries to the point where it’s both dangerous and frustrating to all around her. She must really be miserable if she’s showing her cards like this.

Worriedly, Bruce reaches toward her forehead to try to gauge her temperature, but Nat swats his hand away irritably. “’m not five,” she mutters, turning away from him. But the sharp movement seems to be too much for her at the moment and she stumbles a bit into the counter.

Bruce grabs her elbow for support. “No, but that doesn’t mean you can’t have some help once in a while.”

Nat raises an eyebrow skeptically. “Didn’t know you’d figured out how to eradicate flu viruses overnight.”

“Well, _no…”_ Bruce admits. “But I can make a mean cup of herbal tea and I know where Tony keeps the good blankets.”

Nat seems to consider this for a second before sighing deeply. “Good. Because whatever I made here”—she nods to the mug—“could kill the Red Skull.”

Bruce leans forward to peer into the cup. The liquid is a murky dark color and he can count at least six strings coming from the multiple tea bags inside. “Yikes,” he chuckles.

She shrugs. “Was going for efficiency.”

He puts the kettle on again and guides Nat over to sit at the kitchen table while he prepares her a fresh cup of tea (ginger with lemon and honey) along with a cup of decaf green for himself. She folds her arms on the table and rests her head on them while she waits.

“How’s your stomach?” he asks. “Do you want some crackers or anything?” 

Without raising her head from her arms, she shakes it slightly. “Throat hurts,” she mumbles.

He winces. “Cough medicine?”

She groans a bit. “Already took like half a bottle of NyQuil…”

Bruce raises an eyebrow as he pours the boiling water into the mugs. That would explain her uncharacteristic level of candidness, though it’s kind of amazing she’s still awake. “How about a movie then?” he suggests.

“You really don’ have to stay up,” she murmurs. “I can jus’ go back to my room…”

“Nonsense,” Bruce says with a small smile, moving back to the table with the steaming mugs. “It’s Hallmark season. Bet we can find a good one.”

“That’s an oxymoron,” Nat complains, but slowly gets up anyway and starts shuffling along to the lounge area.

As they enter, Bruce takes in the abundance of Christmas decorations scattered about the room. Tony’s comically large tree is now strung with white lights and colorful ornaments, towering over everything else. There are wreaths and garlands of holly running all around the room, stockings hung over the fireplace, and festive candles and figurines on every surface.

“The kid really went all out,” Bruce remarks, recalling something Pepper mentioned the day before about how Peter was coming over that evening to decorate.

Nat slumps down onto the couch. “‘s a pretzel on the tree…” she mumbles, curling up against the cushions.

Bruce frowns. “I think that’s the NyQuil talking,” he says, setting his own mug down on the coffee table before passing Nat hers.

She takes the tea with a quiet hum.

Bruce then opens the hidden compartment in the sofa’s armrest to retrieve two luxuriously fuzzy blankets and hands one over. “Don’t tell Tony I showed you,” he warns. “He’s quite possessive.”

“I keep secrets for a living,” she huffs. “Think I’ll manage.”

Sitting down on the other end of the sofa, Bruce flips on the TV and finds the Hallmark channel. “Ooh, ‘Finding Father Christmas’ is just starting,” he says, taking a mini candy cane from the bowl on the table. “Want one?” he offers.

She coughs into her elbow a few times before shrugging and croaking out, “Why not...”

And that’s how Bruce finds himself spending the wee hours of Christmas morning snuggled up on the couch with the sickly ex-assassin, sucking on candy canes and quietly giggling at the cheesy film playing on the room’s massive TV. 

Eventually, Nat grows quiet and he glances sideways to see that she’s fallen asleep. Bruce carefully removes the now-empty mug from her hands and sets it back on the coffee table before curling up himself.

Not too shabby of a Christmas after all, he thinks as he drifts off.


	5. Who Spiked the Eggnog?: Peter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from the song [Who Spiked the Eggnog?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M7byjAaLcRM)

“Dr. Banner?” FRIDAY’s voice says quietly into the darkened lounge, waking him.

Bruce sits up with a small groan, his back protesting from his awkward sleeping position. He glances sideways to see that Nat is still sprawled out across the other side of the couch, snoring lightly and sniffling in her sleep. “Wha’ time ‘s it?” he mutters, rubbing at his eyes.

“It is 5:07 a.m. on December 25th,” she reports. “Peter is requesting your assistance in his room.”

Frowning, Bruce untangles himself from the blanket and gets to his feet. Being a teenage boy, Peter is rarely seen before ten in the morning, so he can’t imagine this summons is to shoot the breeze.

As quietly as possible, Bruce pads out of the room and down the hall to the kid’s bedroom. He knocks softly on the door. “Peter?”

Receiving no response, he pushes open the door. The room is totally dark, except for the light visible through the slightly ajar door to the adjoining bathroom.

“Peter?” Bruce calls, crossing the room toward the light. “You alright?”

Peter’s voice moans weakly from inside, _ “No…”  _

Bruce sighs lightly as he pushes open the door; he figures he’s got a pretty good idea of the sight he’s about to find.

It doesn’t disappoint.

Peter is sitting slumped on the bathroom floor, his head resting on the crook of his elbow, which is balanced on the toilet rim. Sweat is beading on his forehead and he’s breathing heavily, traces of vomit on his face. 

“Oh dear...” Bruce breathes.

“Think ’m sick,” Peter moans miserably.

“Yeah, I’d say that,” Bruce agrees, stepping further into the bathroom. He moves over to the sink and wets a washcloth with warm water. 

“Sorry to wake you up,” Peter mutters. “Would’ve asked Mr. Stark, or Happy… or Pepper, but...” he trails off.

“No problem, I was pretty much up anyway,” Bruce assures, wringing out the rag. He doesn’t elaborate on the reason for that. “When did this start?”

Peter shrugs a bit. “I dunno, felt fine when I went to bed.” He wraps an arm around his stomach. “Woke up like half an hour ago ‘cus I was really thirsty, but when I got up the room was spinning. And then I had to throw up.” 

Sitting down beside Peter, Bruce gently leans him back against the tub and wipes his face with the washcloth. He presses a hand to Peter’s forehead. It’s definitely clammy, but unlike with Nat, he’s not detecting a fever and Peter doesn’t sound particularly congested. He is, however, slurring his words a bit.

“Well, you don’t feel warm yet,” Bruce reports. “Are you just nauseous?”

Peter grimaces. “My head hurts a lot. And my stomach. Actually everything kinda hurts. I’m like… dizzy.”

“Sounds like a virus,” Bruce says sympathetically.

With a dramatic groan, Peter slumps his head against Bruce’s shoulder. “Great. Perfect timing. Christmas is ruined.”

Bruce chuckles lightly. “Well, you’ll be in good company at least. Been up with Nat half the night.”

Peter turns his head slightly to look up at Bruce, squinting at the light. “She’s sick too?”

Bruce nods. “But I think you’ve got two different bugs. Hers is more respiratory, whereas yours seems more—”

Peter cuts him off by lurching forward and gagging once more into the bowl. 

“—uh, gastrointestinal,” Bruce finishes with a grimace, reaching out a hand to pat Peter awkwardly on the back as he throws up.

By the time Peter’s heaves turn dry, he’s pale and shaking, his nose running and his eyes full of tears. Bruce’s heart aches at the sight. He reaches over the kid to tear off some toilet paper for him to wipe his face, but in doing so, he catches a whiff of something all-too-familiar from the toilet and his face screws up in confusion. “Uh, have you been drinking?”

“Not really,” Peter moans. “Tried some water before, but it wouldn’t stay down...”

“No, no,” Bruce clarifies, shaking his head. “I don’t mean fluids, I mean have you been  _ drinking _ ? Like, alcohol?”

“Wh-What...?” Peter stammers, lifting his head slightly to give Bruce a questioning look. “No! Never.”

“It’s okay, Peter,” Bruce assures in the most non-judgemental voice he can muster. He flushes the toilet, taking away the strong smell of alcohol along with the meagre contents of Peter’s stomach. “I’m not mad. I remember what being a teenager is like—you wanna try new things, experiment, be cool. I get it.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “When would I have been drinking?” he asks. “I was here putting up the Christmas decorations for Mr. Stark all night. Only thing I drank was a can of soda.” He frowns a bit. “Oh, and some eggnog.”

Bruce raises an eyebrow. “You mean the eggnog that was in the fridge?”

“...Yeah?” Peter says slowly. “Wait, did it go bad or something? Tasted good—like,  _ really  _ good.”

“Oh, I’ll bet.” Removing his glasses, Bruce rubs a hand tiredly at his eyes. “Well, good news is, I don’t think you have a virus after all.”

Peter’s face scrunches up in confusion. “Food poisoning then?”

“Uh, something like that...” Bruce sighs, pushing himself up to standing. Just prior to the fruitcake incident, Steve and Bucky used the rum he and Happy had purchased to whip up a batch of Tony’s famous eggnog for tomorrow. According to Sam, the supersoldiers had been a bit liberal with their proportions. “I think you’re hungover, Peter,” he informs.

Peter barks out a short laugh. But then when Bruce’s expression doesn’t change, he blinks. “Wait, you’re serious? Someone spiked it?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say  _ spiked  _ exactly,” Bruce says awkwardly. “More like, made it... intentionally  _ festive.  _ Wasn’t really meant for underage consumption.”

“But how was I s’posed to know that?” Peter moans miserably. “I always drink eggnog for Christmas and it’s never been spiked before. I mean, May’s never—” He cuts himself off, throwing Bruce a horrified look. “Oh god! May!”

Bruce frowns at him. “What about May?”

“She’ll be here tonight for dinner! She can’t know that I got  _ drunk!” _ His lips are trembling as he continues to babble. “I-I’m not old enough—she’ll  _ kill me!  _ Prob’ly Mr. Stark too! And I won’t be allowed to come back to the compound ever again for training weekends, or to work in the lab, or...or...” Peter suddenly presses his knuckles to his lips and swallows hard.

“Okay, just take a deep breath,” Bruce says patiently, resting a hand heavily on the kid’s shoulder. The combination of the early morning hour, the lingering alcohol in his system, and anxiety have turned Peter into a rambling mess. “Let’s not get all worked up, okay? In through the nose… out through the mouth…” 

Through his panic, Peter manages a few shaky breaths. “I-I didn’ mean to,” he whimpers.

“I know, Peter,” Bruce goes on, gently patting the kid’s back. “It was just an accident. I’m sure she’ll understand. We’ll explain it to her together, okay? Everything will be fine....”

It takes a good five minutes to talk Peter down enough to convince him that the world isn’t actually ending and May likely won’t be disowning him for this. That’s followed by another few minutes of dry heaving into the bowl before Bruce is able to maneuver the kid up and back into his bed. He coaxes Peter into swallowing a couple painkillers with a few sips of ginger ale and then sets a lined trash can beside the mattress.

“Unfortunately, the only real cure for this is sleep,” Bruce says with a pained smile, “but let FRIDAY know if you need me for anything, okay? I don’t mind, I promise.”

Peter nods tiredly. “Okay. Um, thanks for all your help. ‘M sorry about”—he gestures vaguely—“everything.”

“It’s okay, Peter—really,” Bruce assures. “Just get some rest. And uh, Merry Christmas?”

Turning his face into the pillow, Peter lets out a muffled moan.


	6. +1 It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year: Christmas Dinner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from the song [It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2B7rYMdIRqI)

Given the current state of his friends’ health, Bruce was the first to suggest that they should just postpone Christmas celebrations until next week (or next month, honestly). He was, however, emphatically overruled by his incapacitated teammates. With some help from Steve and Bucky, Bruce has just managed to escort everyone to the dining room table—which May has set with a festive tablecloth, fancy plates, and an array of catered dishes she ordered since no one felt like cooking.

In the light of day, Bruce can see that Peter’s drunk decorating skills leave a bit to be desired. The garland is haphazardly strewn around the room, lights are strung aimlessly, and the entire tree is somehow leaning sideways. Nat was correct about the pretzel after all—in fact, there’s a whole assortment of strange items mixed in among the ornaments, including the TV remote, some candy wrappers, a single sock, and the DVD case for the movie ‘Ratatouille’. The star isn’t even on top—it’s about three-quarters of the way up the tree, randomly wedged between two branches.

(Bruce needs to remember to ask FRIDAY later to see the footage from the lounge last night.)

“Alright, everyone all set?” Bruce asks as he parks Tony’s wheelchair at the foot of the table, locking the wheels in place. “Tony? You good?”

Tony blinks slowly, seeming to ponder the question. He’s dressed in loose sweatpants and a zippered hoodie, his back supported by multiple pillows and his injured arm in a sling. “Um… what?”

“How’s the pain?” Bruce checks. “Is sitting up okay?” 

Tony blinks again, long and drawn out. “Wha’ pain? Can’t feel anything.” A small giggle escapes his lips. “Can’t feel my own ass. Not even sure ‘m sitting right now…”

Bruce frowns. While he’s glad Tony finally agreed to take his painkillers, Bruce is wondering whether he should have supervised his friend’s dosage a bit closer. “Just how many Vicodin did you take?”

With a serene smile, Tony holds up three fingers. 

Bruce raises his eyebrows and shakes his head slowly. “Well, that’ll do it.”

“Wish you gave _me_ three.. _.”_ Happy grumbles. Bruce turns to his left to see the head of security also sitting in a wheelchair, but with his right leg extended out in front of him so that his cast can stay elevated, meaning he’s now at least five feet back from the table. Thankfully, May (being a nurse) had the foresight to wheel the over-the-bed-table down from Medbay so Happy’s plate can rest on that. “Mine are wearing off.”

Bruce glances at his watch and shakes his head. “Sorry. You’ve got a good twenty-five minutes left before your next dose.”

Sighing, Happy picks up his glass and holds it out. “Fine. Can you pour me some eggnog then?”

A muffled gagging noise issues from the other end of the table. Bruce looks up to see Peter—dressed in a black sweatshirt with the hood pulled up over his head and wearing a pair of Tony’s dark sunglasses—pressing his knuckles to his lips and looking rather pale. “Please don’t talk ‘bout eggnog...” he mumbles.

 _“_ _Opohmelka,_ _”_ Natasha mutters from inside her blanket cocoon. She’s seated on Peter’s left, looking equally pale, with dark circles under her half-closed eyes and a very red nose. She coughs a few times into a tissue.

“Wha’ was that?” Pepper asks her, frowning. Her face is puffy and red, hives still visible around her neck and collarbone. She looks almost as exhausted as Nat does, though Bruce assumes that’s likely from the high dosage of allergy meds she’s on. 

“Hair of the dog,” Nat croaks back in translation. “Someone should get him a Bloody Mary.”

Peter groans and May laughs lightly. Standing just behind Peter as she sets a basket of rolls on the table, she rubs her nephew’s arm up and down consolingly. “I think we’ll just let it wear off.”

Turning back to Happy, Bruce adds, a little apologetically, “And that’s gonna be a no on the eggnog”—(Peter moans again)—“We don’t mix opioids and alcohol.”

Happy points to the other end of the table, raising an eyebrow. “Sure about that?”

Bruce turns around to see Tony using his good arm to weakly reach across the table for the eggnog carafe. 

“Tony, no!” Bruce yelps, moving it out of his reach. He grabs a roll from the basket and sticks it into Tony’s grasping hand instead. “Now eat that before you puke from all the Vicodin.”

“Ughh... don’ talk about that either…” Peter whines, folding his arms on the table and laying his head atop them. “And can we please keep the volume down?”

May winces and clears her throat. “Alright, let’s just dig in before it gets cold,” she suggests. She points to each dish on the table in turn. “We’ve got roast beef, stuffing, mashed potatoes, cranberries, brussels sprouts, green beans, jello salad, regular salad…” 

Only Steve and Bucky look genuinely interested. Everyone else just moves their gaze unenthusiastically around the table, mustering up small, pained-looking smiles for their hostess.

Reaching behind her to retrieve a massive pot from the counter, May adds, “...And also soup.”

(A relieved sigh issues collectively from around the room.)

While May begins ladling chicken noodle soup into bowls, Bruce, Steve, and Bucky help to assemble plates for their half-delirious companions.

“Want some potatoes?” Steve asks, scooping some up and nodding to Pepper’s plate. “That might be easy to chew.”

Pepper looks wary. “Uh… did they come with an ingredients label?” she asks cautiously, rubbing the back of her neck.

Instant guilt comes over both soldiers’ features and Steve lets the potatoes fall back into the serving bowl. He looks at Pepper with a stricken expression. “Once again, I would just like to say how extremely sorry we are about the whole strawberry thing.”

Bucky shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Yeah, we feel awful.”

Her swollen lips turn up into what Bruce assumes is meant to be a reassuring smile, but just looks kind of sad from his perspective. “It’s alright, you didn’t know,” Pepper tells them kindly.

They both nod solemnly, though their uncomfortable looks remain.

After adding a very small portion of each dish to Tony’s plate, Bruce sets it back down in front of the engineer. “Gravy?” he offers.

Tony’s head lists to the side and he blinks slowly at the food. “Don’ know if I can eat that…” he says, a slight slur to his words.

Bruce’s brows knit together in concern. “You feeling sick?”

Tony tilts his head down to his sling. “One arm.”

“Ah,” Bruce says, understanding dawning. “Right. Uh…” He picks up Tony’s fork and knife, giving the man an apologetic smile. “I’ll just give you a hand there…” he says, earning a grateful grunt in response.

As Bruce cuts Tony’s food into bite-sized pieces, Bucky does the same for Happy (given that the rolling hospital table doesn’t provide him with much leverage for slicing). Nat sips at her soup between hacking coughs, while May adds a scoop of potatoes to Peter’s plate.

“Salt will help,” May tells him, shaking some onto his potatoes. “That and fluids.” She nods to the glass of Sprite in front of him.

Peter grimaces in response, but picks up his fork and begins poking at the potatoes half-heartedly anyway.

They go on like that for a while, eating together in subdued silence. Bucky and Steve do their best to keep everyone entertained, telling lighthearted anecdotes from their childhood or wartime Christmases, though Bruce is a bit distracted trying to keep Tony on track. 

The third time that Tony nods off and drops his fork, rather than hitting his plate, it clatters all the way to the ground. Tony wakes with a start. “What’d I miss?” 

“I’ve got it,” Bruce sighs. He bends down to retrieve the fork before heading to the kitchen to get a clean one. 

When he returns shortly after in the middle of Bucky’s recounting of the time when Father Christmas generously gave each member of his family a whole orange, he finds Tony’s head lulled to the side, eyes closed, a trail of drool running down the corner of the engineer’s mouth. “Tony?” Bruce says worriedly, tapping the man’s shoulder.

Tony’s eyes spring open. “What? I’m up, I’m up…” He looks hopefully up at Bruce. “...Eggnog?”

Peter gulps hard and pushes his plate of potatoes away, one hand on his stomach. May rolls her eyes in Tony’s direction and Nat snorts a bit, then coughs.

Bruce runs a hand through his hair. His own head is aching from all this nonsense and hardly any sleep. “Do you wanna just go to bed?” he offers.

Tony frowns. “But ‘s Christmas, isn’t it?” His unfocused eyes land on his own plate. “Oh. That looks good,” he remarks. “Beef?”

Huffing out a laugh, Bruce shakes his head slowly. “Yeah, it is. And you should eat it.” He hands his friend the fork once more.

Just then, the alarm Bruce set earlier on his watch starts going off. 

“Thank _god,”_ Happy groans. He pushes his rolling table to the side. “Time for meds!”

“Time for meds,” Bruce confirms with a tired nod. He reaches under his chair to pull out a gallon sized ziploc bag full of various medicine bottles.

Wiping her hands on her napkin, May gets to her feet. “I’ll go get everyone some water.”

From inside the bag, Bruce removes a small laminated card that he created earlier. There are columns for each ‘patient’, along with the time and dosage of each of their medications.

“Narco,” Happy requests, holding out his hand expectantly. “Hit me.”

Bruce shakes one out of the bottle for him, and Happy promptly swallows it dry. Bruce winces at him, then picks up the Benadryl. “Pepper? One or two?”

She scratches at her arm. “Two. Please.”

He hands her two pink pills, then looks over to Peter. “You want one of your painkillers?” he asks the kid, referring to the superhero-strength drugs he and Tony made for enhanced metabolisms.

Peter shrugs tiredly. “Only if you’ve got somethin’ for the nausea,” he says with a slight slur to his words. “Otherwise, think it’s a lost cause...”

Bruce pulls out a bubblegum-pink bottle of Pepto-Bismol and hands it to May to dose out, along with one of Peter’s painkillers. The kid grunts in thanks.

Looking at the two different cough syrups in the bag, Bruce pauses, considering. He checks his watch before turning to Nat. “It’s just after six,” he tells her. “Do you want NyQuil or DayQuil?”

“You pick,” she croaks. “Don’t think it matters that much.”

“Hm.” After a few seconds of thought, he hands her the orange bottle. “Then you can stay up for presents.”

Discreetly, Bruce pops two Advil himself, earning him a mildly concerned look from May. “Headache,” he explains sheepishly and she hums in understanding.

Now that everyone is taken care of, Bruce starts repacking the bag.

“What ‘bout me?” Tony asks, looking a bit sad. 

“I think you’ve had plenty,” Bruce scoffs. He hands Tony another roll and slides his water glass closer to him on the table. “Just focus on the food, alright?”

“Yeah. Okay.” Tony takes a small bite, though his eyelids are already drooping. 

“So…” Steve says after a moment. “Uh, who’s up for dessert?” 

A dead silence falls over the group (with the exception of a few coughs from Nat).

Bucky turns to Pepper and quickly says in a whisper, “It’s not fruitcake, I swear.”

Pepper laughs a bit. “I trust you. I think we’re just all pretty tired.” 

Just then, a snore issues from Bruce’s right. As Tony’s head slumps to his shoulder, the single bite of roll the engineer took a few seconds ago falls out of his mouth. Everyone’s gaze follows the small piece of bread as it hits the floor and goes rolling away.

Bruce blinks. Then an involuntary giggle escapes his lips. It’s joined a second later by another giggle, this time from Pepper. Then Nat joins in, alternating between giggles and coughs. Within five seconds, the entire table (except Tony) breaks into a fit of giggles, everyone staring at the sad-looking chunk of roll on the ground which sums up the entire evening.

Removing his glasses, Bruce wipes a few stray tears from his eyes. “This is absurd…” he says through giggles.

“Maybe it’s bedtime?” May suggests.

 _“God,_ yes,” Bruce agrees. “I think we’ve all hit our limit this year.”

Tony has somehow managed to stay asleep for all of this, so Bruce stands and unlocks the wheels of his chair for him. While May hoists a dizzy-looking Peter to his feet, Bucky moves over to assist Happy (whose appetite has seemed to have just returned and is insisting on taking a second plate with him). Steve offers Pepper a hand, which she accepts with a nod of thanks and stands as well. He offers the same help to Nat, who swats his hand away with a glare.

_As Bruce wheels snoring Tony across the great room,_

_And the pathetic procession heads to Medbay with gloom,_

_The scientist sighs deeply and says with some spite,_

_“Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Shameless self plug: If you'd like to read more about the making of Peter's superhero strength painkillers, check out our other fic, [Super Duper Side Effects](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19167391/chapters/45559333))
> 
> The story is not over yet! Click on for the bonus drabble chapter!


	7. Bonus Drabbles: Merry Christmas!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six short drabbles expanding on parts of the story. Enjoy!

**Merry Christmas!**

  1. **S** **nowballs**
  2. **Bublé & Baubles**
  3. **Eggnoggin’**
  4. **Cinnamon Catastrophe**
  5. **Barton Family Christmas**
  6. **Last Man Standing**



* * *

**1\. Snowballs**

“Alright,” Bruce says as he finishes adjusting Tony’s sling. “That’s for your shoulder,”—he reaches for a bottle of pills on the table beside the bed and shakes two out into Tony’s other palm—“and this is for your back.”

The engineer pops them into his mouth with a grimace. 

“And then this…” Bruce goes on, passing Tony a glass of water, “is for the pills. And then this”—from the table, he produces a sleeve of crackers—“is so those pills stay down.”

Swallowing the water, Tony takes a cracker from the package with a grunt of thanks.

“And finally,” Bruce concludes, reaching behind him to retrieve an ice pack from the table, “this is for your, uh…” He tilts his head in the direction of Tony’s crotch.

“Thank god.” Tony takes the ice pack from him and immediately slides it under his blanket with a relieved sigh. “Knew I could count on you.”

* * *

**2\. Bublé & Baubles **

Approaching the lounge, Sam can already hear Michael Bublé’s Christmas album blasting from the room’s speakers. He enters to find the kid hanging upside down from the ceiling, attaching ornaments to the positively massive tree and humming happily along to ‘It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas.’

“Hey Pete,” Sam greets, amused.

Suspended by the web, Peter slowly spins around to grin at him. He’s wearing a battery-powered light-up Christmas tree sweater declaring ‘GET LIT’ and munching on a white chocolate-covered pretzel. “Hi Mr. Wilson! I came to decorate!”

Sam chuckles. “Yeah, I can see that. You’re really getting into the spirit there.”

“Uh huh!” Peter agrees through a bite of pretzel. He spins back around to face the tree and hangs another bauble. “What do you think? Looks great, right?”

Sam surveys the room, taking in the vast array of decorations. Garland and holly branches are hanging askew, tangles of stringed lights are everywhere, and the floor is covered with overturned boxes of festive items. Peter lowers himself down on his web to grab some more ornaments from the box, along with another handful of pretzels. Then he fires another web at the ceiling and shoots back up to the top of the tree.

“It looks… very unique,” Sam replies, and Peter beams. “Sorry I can’t stay to help out—I’m hosting the veterans’ holiday dinner downtown tomorrow, so I’m heading over tonight to set up.”

“That’s okay,” Peter says cheerily. “I came early to help Dr. Banner with everything, so we should be all hunky-dory!” He flashes Sam a thumbs up, which causes one of the pretzels to slip from his grip and land on a branch a few feet down. He giggles to himself and continues to decorate.

Sam smiles and shakes his head slowly. _Ah the innocence of youth,_ he thinks to himself as he heads out the door.

* * *

**3\. Eggnoggin’**

When May arrived at the compound at noon on the 25th, Bruce made sure to catch her at the door. He figured it would be in everyone’s best interest to give her a bit of warning before she laid eyes on her half-dead nephew.

“...Just to reiterate, it was completely unintentional by all parties,” Bruce explains as he and May make their way to the kid’s bedroom. “And I sincerely doubt he will be doing anything like this again any time soon.”

May has been quietly nodding along to Bruce’s explanation this entire time, eyebrows knit together in mild concern. She pushes open the bedroom door and steps inside, Bruce close behind. 

They’re immediately met with a sour smell, and both their noses wrinkle up. Though all the shades are drawn, they can make out Peter’s figure lying curled up on his side, one arm hanging over the edge of the mattress and the other draped over his eyes, the trash can beside the bed looking like it’s gotten some use. He lets out a low moan, just as he did the last three times Bruce checked on him.

“Still alive,” Peter mutters into his arm. “Please don’ turn on the light…”

“Wow,” May deadpans. “You weren’t kidding.”

At the sound of his aunt’s voice, Peter quickly lowers his arm and pushes himself up on his elbows. “May! Uh, I can explain!” he blurts, obvious fear in his eyes.

“That’s alright, Peter,” she says, looking just the smallest bit amused. “Bruce already filled me in on what you got up to last night.”

Peter looks stricken. “Did he also say it was an accident? Because it totally was! I didn’t know it was spiked! I thought it was just really really good eggnog,” he babbles. “And the more I drank the better it tasted, and...” He trails off when May starts laughing.

“Peter, calm down, I believe you!” she manages between giggles. “I’m not mad—I’m just amazed. How the hell did you make it to _seventeen_ without knowing that eggnog is usually an alcoholic beverage?” She dissolves into further laughter. “I’ve _failed you!”_

Peter’s expression slowly morphs from anxious to annoyed and he flops back down onto the bed. “Don’t laugh at my pain,” he groans. “‘S too loud…”

Stifling her giggles with her hand, May approaches the bed and sits down on the edge beside Peter’s knees. “I’m sorry, sweetie, you’re right,” she says, rubbing his arm gently. “I shouldn’t laugh—God knows I did this enough in college.” She looks thoughtful. “Actually, I remember this one time my freshman year when my roommate—”

With a groan, Peter pulls his pillow over his head. “Noooo…”

Chuckling, May pats him on the elbow. “Alright, alright... I’ll tell you another day.” She gets to her feet with a sigh. “You just rest. I’ll go help Bruce get ready for Christmas.”

* * *

**4\. Cinnamon Catastrophe**

It takes a good half hour to parade the miserable group to Medbay and get everyone situated. Technically only Tony and Happy are currently residing there, but May decides Peter could do with an IV, so she sets that up for him while Bucky helps Pepper to wheel another bed over beside Tony’s so she can hang out without jostling him. 

Bruce fully expected Nat to head back to her own room, but when he asks FRIDAY to start projecting ‘The Grinch’ on the opposite wall, she curls up in one of the comfy armchairs to watch with them. 

(Who knew it was her favorite movie?)

While the two supersoldiers have been very helpful all day, Bruce notices that they still seem rather uncomfortable. Bucky, for one, keeps adjusting his position in his chair, tugging at the front of his trousers as though they’re a bit too tight. Steve, meanwhile, has declined every offer of a seat and instead is choosing to lean with his back against the wall and stepping out of the room for a few minutes every now and then.

Bruce has just finished passing around a plate of Christmas cookies when Steve taps him on the arm, looking awkward but determined. “Um, do you have a minute?” he whispers, nodding his head towards the door.

“Yeah, sure,” Bruce agrees with a small frown. He follows Steve just outside of the room and into the hall.

Steve shuts the door behind them quietly before turning back to Bruce, his face now significantly redder. “Alright, so... I have a small problem.”

Bruce’s frown deepens. Given the way this week has been going, he’s feeling a bit on edge. “What’s wrong?” he asks warily.

Steve coughs and shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “So, last night Bucky and I were having… uh, _date night,_ ” he emphasizes with a slight head tilt. 

Raising an eyebrow, Bruce nods. He’s unsure quite where this is going. 

Steve plows on, “See, the day before we’d been out shopping, getting some last minute gifts, and one thing kinda led to another and before we knew it we were in this um… _specialty store.”_ He shifts again. “And they had this holiday sale on, uh… cinnamon-scented lubricant.”

Bruce blinks.

“...I think we’re allergic,” Steve concludes, then sighs defeatedly. In a whisper, he adds, “My ass is on fire.”

Bruce blinks again. “Oh.”

“Uh, and Bucky’s…” Steve trails off, gesturing vaguely below his belt buckle.

Grimacing, Bruce holds up a hand. “I think I get the picture. Uh, Cortisone cream?”

Steve nods, looking relieved. “Please.”

* * *

**5\. Barton Family Christmas**

“...and that’s how dinner ended,” Bruce concludes with a heavy sigh. “What a week.”

Over the skype call, Clint chuckles at the doctor’s recap of the festivities at the compound. The camera of Clint’s laptop is angled so that Bruce can just see the archer’s face and the top of his shoulders, along with the cozy-looking decorations in the background of his kitchen in Iowa. “Sure sounds like it—kinda glad I ditched when I did.”

“It was an adventure,” Bruce agrees. “Anyway, how was your Christmas? Did Lila like the Lego set Natasha got her?”

“Oh yeah, she was over the moon,” he says. “And Nate’s been chewing on those picture board books you got him all morning—he’s got a tooth coming in.”

Bruce laughs lightly. “Not really what I’d intended, but I’ll always support a voracious reader. Glad to hear everything went well.”

“Oh yeah,” Clint assures, “Ten out of ten. Good food, Laura’s parents visited, got a new sweater vest,”—he nods down to the red and green striped material on his shoulders—“and it snowed six inches! Couldn’t be better.”

Bruce hears Laura clear her throat in the background of the skype call. “Are you going to mention the other thing now?” her voice comes pointedly. 

Clint glances off screen. “Yeah, I was getting to that, hon.” He looks back at the camera, a bit sheepish now. “Uh, I might be taking a few extra days off.”

“More like _weeks,”_ Laura says, stepping into the shot behind her husband. She reaches out a hand to tilt the laptop screen downward, and Bruce lets out a gasp at the sight. 

Both of the archer’s arms are encased in plaster casts, which are set at ninety-degree angles over his elbows.

“Wh… What happened?” Bruce asks, dumbstruck. “I thought you said you had a great time!”

“We did!” Clint defends. “Except for that little part where I fell off the roof.”

Bruce blinks. Just when he thought this cursed holiday had claimed its last victim. “I’m sorry… what?”

Laura rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “Guess who decided to Griswold the house with Christmas lights this year?”

“...I’m guessing it wasn’t Cooper?” Bruce ventures, wincing.

 _“Anyway,”_ Clint goes on. “I should be back to work in a week or so.”

Laura scoffs. “Yeah, we’ll see about that one...” Looking into the camera, she smiles at Bruce. “Good luck with your invalids.”

“Same to you,” Bruce replies before ending the call.

* * *

**6\. Last Man Standing**

“Fell off the roof. Two broken arms—can’t even zip his own pants,” Bruce informs their little party in Medbay, running a hand over his face. “I can’t anymore.”

“This Christmas really got us all good, didn’t it?” Pepper laughs. Though her lips are still a bit puffy, the hives have gone down now, along with most of the swelling.

“That reminds me,” Bucky pipes up from his seat. “Sam stepped on a bauble when he got home from his event last night—cut his foot pretty bad. I gave him four stitches.”

Before anyone else can reply, Tony throws in, “Oh yeah, and Rhodey called from Florida. Guess he got food poisoning from Great Uncle Melvin’s coleslaw.”

“That’s it,” Bruce declares. He gets to his feet and walks over to the nearest open bed before collapsing down onto it, face first, and pulls the pillow up over his head. “Wake me up when it’s New Year’s.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Please let us know your thoughts in the comments—we really appreciate getting feedback on our work :D
> 
> If you're interested in reading more about Bruce using his medical skills to assist his teammates, you might enjoy: [Five Times Bruce Banner is Not That Kind of Doctor™ + One Time He’s Perfect For the Job](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17581358/chapters/41439260)
> 
> Come and hang out on tumblr if you want: [whumphoarder](https://whumphoarder.tumblr.com/) & [awesomesockes](http://awesomesockes.tumblr.com/)


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